sunset from behind the wire

Friday, April 25, 2014

Leprechaun

A non-sequential series of fictional shorts:

Leprechaun

Are there other worlds in other dimensions of space that somehow touch ours? Does it seem that the membrane between what we see with our mind and what we experience unconsciously is as porous as a bridal veil? Can we tear that barrier to feel what we can’t explain—that smallest of things that are present seem completely beyond our reach and beyond our understanding?

***

Some people called him an angry gnome, but Basil Noldor ignored them. Others said he was possessed of Satan because he didn’t acknowledge God’s hand in all things. He merely winked an eye, magnified out of all proportion by the coke-bottle-bottom eyeglasses that he wore draped over a large, outsized nose. A more objective and far kinder evaluation of the essence of Basil Noldor, writer, dealer in antiquities was unfortunately, is his inclination to be militantly eccentric.

In his cottage, not far from the river, Basil sat hunched over a desk, wearing out another iron nub, dipping it in ink and scratching words on a page. His son tried to ignore him but found it difficult because his father engaged him in conversation. Basil Noldor’s voice, high pitched and raspy with much angry use, intoned, “There’s no such thing, as magic!” His son heard this rant before and did his best to tone his father out. “But I do admit that the imagination needs superstitions.” His son added a log to the dwindling coals on the hearth. “They weave the fabric of history and society so that, in time, there is very little difference between fables and historical fact. It all becomes fact and without that historical reassurance of legends mixed with truth, the world would be a lonely place indeed. That, my son, is why I write.”

Ignatius Noldor, only son to Basil, had risen partly through bribery offered by his father and partly because he could be obsequious, to the ranking assistant alderman. Unlike his father, Basil, he firmly believed in magic. Ignatius gripped fast to the hope that mystical incantations could bring the metaphysical world directly into his physical presence, for his specific benefit. He made a respectable living as a pander and factotum, eating other men’s bread without guilt or any remorse at all, while providing scant services in return.

After adding wood to the fire and reclining back into his chair, Ignatius picked up a well worn, leather bound tome dealing specifically with magic. While his father ranted in muttering tones and scratched his pen. Ignatius read other men’s words, trying to suck the marrow out of their mystical message.

Suspended by a rusty rod reputedly fashioned from meteorite iron, an elaborate tapestry hung over the fireplace. Careful embroidery recounted the journey of the Noldor family through time. It was a chronicle, a family tree, a historical tribute, and had been in the family for over 400 years. Ignatius was less than impressed by it. There had been a time when he was younger when he looked at the gilded names with awe. Age and experience taught him to be underwhelmed by the tapestry. Noldors held ignominious postings and minor jobs as bookkeepers, bank tellers and nannies. None was ever a daring knight, a scarlet woman or a powerful bishop. Clemet Noldor did become a man of the cloth but never advanced beyond the ash stained sackcloth of an ordinary monk.

A serious understanding of his family’s painful mediocrity spurred Ignatius to exceed the standard set by preceding generations through the study of magic, mystics and witches and warlocks, shamans and the traditions of the dim and distant past. His father thought it foolishness, a complete waste of time and an indulgence in fantasy.

Peering into crystals, uttering and muttering, studiously mixing chemicals and often getting sick from the fumes they produced, Ignatius’ single-minded pursuit of truth-in-magic continued without any significant breaks. There was something out there, and he knew he was the Noldor to find it.

Suddenly Basil stopped writing. He looked at his son, so much the image of himself, reading, pondering, and he made a decision.

“Son, stand with me by the fire if you will.”

Ignatius set down his book, carefully marking his place and joined his father.

“Magic is not real nor does it exist apart from natural law. It’s simply a way of trying to explain the explainable in a way that discounts science. I want to show you something that has been in our family for nearly five hundred years.” Basil said as he drew back the tapestry over the fireplace as one would pull a curtain aside.

There was a tunnel, three feet high, large enough for either Basil or Ignatius to walk through without bending over that went back into the wall at least five feet. A shimmering darkness glittered in the tunnel and Ignatius stood on his toes to get a better look in as his father fetched a ladder.

Once in place, Basil led the way up the steps and into the tunnel.

“What is it father?”

“One of the most closely guarded secrets of our family. It’s a portal in space-time, naturally occurring, stable, and possibly driven by the energy created by the stones in this part of the house.” Basil said with a flare.

“Magic?”

“Not magic, science, my son. I don’t understand precisely why it’s here or how it came to form here, but its process is part of the natural order. It’s night there on the other side of the portal but when I first saw it, the doorway in time opened onto a glade, with violet heather blooming so that the world appeared to be a rolling sea of lavender under a cerulean sky, all the magic in the world, all the fables and mystery of the ages were challenged by a single leap into the dark that was taken by my brother, Winthrop and his cousin Garner. It was a free dive into oblivion. And I was there to watch them walk through.”

Basil lit his pipe. “They didn’t seem like ghost or an apparitions to me, but I have no idea how they might have appeared to somebody looking at them from the other side of the door in space-time. No shade of a lost soul or glittering angel, I expect, but you never know.”

Basil contemplated the shimmering world on the other side of the portal as dawn began to peak beyond the distant hills. “They came here and spoke from time to time. They needed things. So I had them fine suits of green made, sent pots of gold coin to help them pay for their needs, and such.”

“So there are people on this other world? People like us?”

“People twice our size, who are different, and not so different, I expect. I have seen them. I don’t think they can see me - and a trip through this doorway, this shimmering veil, is a one-way journey since neither Garner or my brother Winthrop were ever able to return. Winthrop said that some of the people took Garner and forced him to disclose the location of his pot of gold. Once they found it, they were so enthralled with its value that they ignored him and he was able to escape.”

Housekeeping

As of January 1, 2017 this blog began to receive anonymous posts. I try not to delete them, but if you want to be taken seriously here, you need to identify yourself, if only by some sort of cryptonym.

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"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad, you're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad," asked Alice?

"You must be," said the cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

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Virtual Mirage - What's on the other side of the mirror? Ask Alice how deep the rabbit hole really goes.

This blog is an extension of MY JOURNEY because sometimes my journey needs more explanation, and sometimes there is more to be said than can be expressed on one ordinary blog.

Sometimes it's politics (very serious), sometimes I address the human condition with a dose of humor, and other times it may seem as if the track is headed in a unique direction. I can be a complicated guy at times.

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WHITE POWDER (Novel)

There is something intoxicating about a secret.

THE OLD WHORE (NOVEL)

In the peculiar culture of the Central Intelligence Agency, "old whores" are people who will do whatever it takes to get the job done, irrespective of the cost.

EXILES FROM EDEN (NOVEL)

Sparks fly as two star-crossed lovers meet. He runs toward trouble as she yearns for something missing. And it ends in a flight from and toward justice.

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Today, I balance work and play as much as anyone can. All things remaining equal, play is more important. Life is short - it's important to make every day count for something, if only to yourself.
I'm a former tinker/tailor/soldier/sailor who has now decided that maybe it really wasn't all done for nothing.

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